


Wrenched

by KKGlinka



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KKGlinka/pseuds/KKGlinka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka's too tired to be climbing ladders or visiting Warehouse 12, but here she is doing both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrenched

So Mrs. Frederic saved the world, might she rest in peace, which meant they were all dealing with Claudia as their boss and boy wasn't that fun, and now Helena was a regent assigned as a liaison because the regency didn't want to repeat the mistake of alienating its own agents and, yeah, that was awkward too. Myka had had a long day and it needed to end because her new boss was ten years her junior, talked in l33t and the hottest chick she'd ever lacked the common sense to fantasize about was also sort of her boss. And now the remaining agents were overworked again, even with Helena taking over the role of Warehouse engineer, because the whole system had never been set up with instantaneous world-wide communication in mind.

Agents were supposed to have reasonable work hours, with separate personnel assigned to inventory, not working what amounted to double shifts and seven day weeks. They ought to have about ten times as many agents but they didn't, so Myka was on a ladder, on the Warehouse floor, putting up the stupid fishhook from the stupid dolphin from the stupid water park. The more she thought about jumping over the shark pool to rescue Pete, the more the back of her neck started to hurt. Nevermind the dolphin. She shuddered and made herself stop before started thinking about tentacles.

And then the stupid wrench fell off the shelf and she couldn't even blame Pete because he was already driving back to the B&B.

And Myka was blinking spots out of her eyes and desperately hoping it was the start of a migraine and not what she thought it was. But now, the shelving had definitely changed, the lighting was worse and she wasn't on a ladder. Obviously, the day wasn't going to end. She actually felt the burning moisture of tears forming before she took a deep breath and got it together.

"Why?" She asked out loud, before picking up the wrench with still-gloved hands. She started walking.

At least this Warehouse was smaller than thirteen's, and it had electric lighting so she couldn't have gone back too far. She looked at the steel staircase with trepidation, then started up, knowing she would be heard. Sure enough, when she entered what passed for an office, she was met by several strangers and one familiar face.

She nodded. "Warehouse twelve, right?"

But they were rude and pulled teslas on her, except for the older man with the white beard. He looked Semitic, maybe Indian, which meant he was probably Caturanga. The second oldest was tall with a mustache, which probably made him Crowley. Then there were two younger men, both clean shaven, but one was standing much closer to Helena, so she hazarded a guess they were McShane and Wolcott, in that order.

"This is," answered Caturanga. "And I see by your tesla that you must be one of us?"

"Warehouse thirteen, South-Dakota Badlands, America, two-thousand-twelve, Agent Myka Bering."

"Well," Caturanga stood, while waving down the others, "that's true enough, about the next Warehouse and even my colleagues here didn't know that."

"What?" Crowley turned on Caturanga. "The provincial dregs of America?"

But he was silenced with a firm, slightly bemused look. "Now, then, Agent Bering, how may we be of assistance?"

Myka ignored how Helena was staring at her in fascination and held up the wrench, dangling it from her fingers in exasperation. "What is it and how do we neutralize it?"

She was peripherally away of Crowley storming off in a quiet huff, McShane still staring at her in even ruder fascination than Helena, though Wolcott was far more polite. She could understand, really. Even though her clothing was technically almost the same as Helena's, it fit better with less to the imagination, by Victorian standards. They couldn't help staring, though Helena could have done less leering. At which point, she realized Wolcott was occupied trying to restrain Helena and Myka slid aside and pivoted in time to prevent her from grabbing the wrench. 

"No glove, no love," she warned, automatically using her and Pete's catch-phrase.

"What?" Helena came to an open-mouthed stop, even wider eyed than McShane now, hand frozen mid-motion.

"Ah, ummmm," said Myka. Right. She needed to watch her vocabulary. 

Oh, but she was too late with that thought because Helena regained her composure with a smirk and tilt of her head. "Your gloves are quite curious. Thin, purple, implying they have guarding properties against artifacts," she muttered more to herself than anyone in particular, "yet flexible enough to maintain dexterity."

Myka started backing up in a slow circle around Caturanga, pivoting again to avoid being trapped against his desk. The old man just kept smiling and watching the two of them, but Myka had decided he was probably one of those people so at peace with life that he was perpetually amused. "Yeah, goo infused nitrile. Will you stop it? I've had a really long day and the last thing I need to deal with with, is you."

Helena courteously stopped. "You speak as if you know me."

"HG Wells, Helena, yes, I do."

Helena laughed softly. "No, I'm referring to your body language. It seems you know me."

Oh. That archaic vocabulary again. Myka scrunched her nose, then said, "No adventuring, thank you and if you don't get your hand out of my pocket-"

Even Caturanga couldn't stop what happened next. Helena wound up against the wall, secured by her lapels, with her feet several inches off the floor.

"Oh my, you're quite strong," Helena gasped in surprise, but she was grinning like a loon and waving around her prize. "But I still have your spare gloves!"

"Congratulations. You do realize I could be strangling you, right now?" Myka lifted the wrench, giving it a threatening wriggle.

"You do realize I could disable you if I wished?"

Myka laughed and it wasn't a particularly nice laugh because her head hurt and why did Helena need to be such a player? "I know for an absolute fact, that you can't beat me in a fight."

Wolcott was holding up his hands in placation. "Uh, ma'am, I know she can be quite difficult and I've no reason to disbelieve you, none at all, but if you might take a moment and calm yourself we can help you return home."

Myka dropped Helena, at which point she became aware of McShane bent over, peering at her hip, more accurately, her holstered pistol.

"That is a marvelous pistol," he declared in appreciation, with his hands in his pockets to demonstrate he wasn't as grabby as Helena.

"Yes," she agreed, to be polite, but offered no information because, well, future facts and all that. She turned back to Caturanga, holding the wrench in supplication. She sighed loudly.

He smiled fondly, then pointed a warning finger to Myka's side and she knew Helena had been about to make some ill-fated move. "We have a vat of artifact neutralizing gel on hand, your 'goo', I believe."

He guided her to the vat and she threw the wrench in it, blinking to see herself back on the ladder in Warehouse 13. She climbed down, shaking her head, retrieved the wrench for the second time and set it back on its shelf. She read the label and of course it was the original wrench in the works, then headed back toward the office. She wasn't even going to put this in her report, but the next time Helena came on to her, she would damn well pick up the nearest tool and brain her with it.


End file.
